


The Corruption

by Doitsuki



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adventure, Alcohol, Cannibalism, Capitalism, Crack Pairings, Drugs, Food, Genderfluid Character, M/M, Magic, Modern AU, Multi, OOC, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poverty, Romance, Sex, Shoplifting, Soulmate AU, Soulmates, Survival, all kinds of sensitive issues, original fic with tolkien characters lmao here we go, rarepair
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:35:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4254828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Doitsuki/pseuds/Doitsuki
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>[This is basically a soulmate fic in a super capitalist world where the protagonists are lower middle-class unemployed people and there’s heaps of prejudice towards anyone who isn’t society’s ideal citizen]</p><p>In a world focussed on love and little more, there is hardly any privacy or wealth to be had for 90% of the folk in Arda. Societal segregation based on the sheer difficulty of survival leads to all sorts of problems, especially for those who do not fit the description of a 'perfect citizen'. Yet there are lives that must be lived, with or without a soulmate. Sometimes the bonds of family are stronger than romantic love.</p><p>[Modern Soulmate AU fic with an original universe created and Tolkien characters used. Strong warning for out-of-character behaviour. Canon personalities will be developed later on. Hopefully.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The scene is set.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write a thing so this fic exists ;n; Nearly everything here is made-up because I've never read about soulmate AUs further than a single tumblr post lel

 The night was dark and full of eternal sorrow. People more akin to spirits drifted through the streets, wailing for their soulmates to come to their side. They didn’t know if they were even in the same country. All they knew was loneliness, all-consuming and a shadow on the heart. They were the reason nobody else went out at night. These immortal people, _Loveless_ they were called, would latch onto any living being they saw and cling to them until years passed. Years of not aging past a single day. And they would know they had not found their mate.

Tonight, the streets were being pelted with hard, freezing rain. Every little house behind their tall iron fences sat with lights on and curtains drawn. A few minutes past the ninth hour, and most people had their eyes glued to the late news on channel seven. One person did not, finding the outside world more interesting than the electronic box behind him. His stiff, cold fingers parted a chink in the blinds and the living room’s light spilled into the front yard. A loud hiss came from beyond the fence and he saw a Loveless cringe until they folded up into themselves and lay shivering on the wet pavement. He frowned.

“Is it just me, or have there been a lot more of these guys lately?” Turning aside, he glanced over to his brother who rolled his eyes.

“I don’t _care_ , Melkor. None of them can hurt us. Stop peeping and come over here… you’re making me nervous.”

Melkor sighed and let the blinds fall into place. Strands of his rich black hair fell about his high cheekbones and tickled his pale skin as he walked away. The air in the living room was quite dry, and Melkor had previously had his forehead pressed against the window where the condensation slicked his hair back.

“It’s bloody hot in here. Man, I’m going to get something to eat. You want an ice cream?” Manwë looked at his brother and shook his head.

“I’m not as cold-blooded as you.”

Melkor grit his teeth but said nothing, only now feeling his fingers start to tingle with warmth. Being so close to the outside world had chilled his blood and given some truth to Manwë’s words. But Melkor couldn’t help it. He loved this kind of weather, and hated being stuck inside. He made his way to the kitchen, bare feet flat against the cold white tiles. The house was reasonably well-furnished, having been lived in for five years and accumulating more mess than anyone could be bothered cleaning. Melkor had a habit of leaving things lying around, and Manwë always screamed at him for it. Not that Melkor cared. He could ignore his brother better than anyone else. Now he reached to open the freezer and pull a wrapped Cornetto from a box, leaving two left. This one had nuts and chocolate sauce in it, and Melkor was somewhat glad he didn’t have to share. Tomorrow he’d eat another one just to survive the living room heat. Just as he smacked the freezer door shut and turned to leave he stepped on something sticky.

“The fuck?” he muttered, looking down to see bright crimson pooling at his feet. The fridge shuddered, and before he could be frighened Melkor flung open the lower door to see what was going on. A foul, acrid stench assaulted his entire body and he recoiled while holding his ice cream like a knife. Pressed up against the transparent bottom shelf was a face, hateful red eyes wide open and blood bubbling from the mouth. An ice-covered hand shot out and tugged at Melkor’s ankle enough for him to stumble a bit and kick around. He just about annihilated his toes on the corner of the fridge and staggered back, cursing into a fierce bite of his ice cream.

“God damn it MANWË THEY’RE COMING IN!!!!!” Leaping into the living room, Melkor gestured wildly with both hands and saw his brother just narrow his eyes.

“I know. That’s one of mine; must’ve eaten the poison I left out.” Manwë gave a nonchalant flip of his long white hair and it spilled over his shoulder as he turned. “You’re getting blood all over the carpet.”

“Egh!” Melkor wiped his feet on purpose to mess up the plush beige carpet even more. “I just about shit myself! Can’t you keep your soulmates under control?”

“Well I hardly knew when this one was going to come in.” said Manwë, folding his arms defensively. “He was only reincarnated a few years ago, I didn’t expect him to make a move so soon.”

“Yes you did! You left poison and he still managed to claw through the wall and break into the fridge. Over the course of a few hours too!” Melkor slid into the living room even further, glancing towards the kitchen. “When were you going to dispose of the body, eh?”

“When I discovered it.” replied Manwë and then he got up, shoulders squared. “I’ll put him through the meat grinder now, and we can have lasagna tomorrow. Sound good?”

“Fantastic.” Sarcasm dripped through Melkor’s voice and he licked up a bit of chocolate that leaked from the side of his cone. Still with an appetite to finish his ice cream, he nibbled on it quietly. Of course Manwë would destroy the lungs of his next soulmate and get a bit of fresh meat for free. The sick bastard he was, he would probably tell the story to the rest of their relatives too. Melkor screwed up his face. They were strapped for cash just like everyone else in these suburbs, and good food was quite hard to come by. Unhealthy things were the cheapest in supermarkets and fast-food joints, but didn’t work so well to keep most people alive. Ice-cream was hardly a fitting meal… Melkor still ate it for dinner every day like his existence depended on it. He supposed they would be eating human meat for a week now.

Since Manwë was gone, he could flick the temperature down a bit by using the control panel just beside the TV. Then he slumped into an armchair, knowing how to angle his body so the springs sticking out wouldn’t poke into him too much. The stuffing was coming out from most of their cushioned furniture, and there were holes from old termite infestations in many tables and chairs. None of them could afford new furniture, not when they could still use what they had. At least they weren’t on cardboard boxes and electricity cuts yet.

Manwë held the face of his dying soulmate, not knowing their name nor purpose in life. They smiled upon sight of him and he cradled their bloodied head in his arms. He could see bits of rubble, metal and fingernails strewn about inside the fridge from the break-in through the side of the house. There had obviously been a great struggle to get in.

“Couldn’t you have knocked on the door?” he whispered, slowly blinking his soft blue eyes. His soulmate merely grasped at him, then went stiff. Once the life left their body, Manwë’s smile faded.

“What a mess.” he grumbled, dropping the head and reaching for the shoulders. He tugged the entire body out of the fridge and hauled it up to drain in the sink, where an empty bucket lay waiting to collect the blood. He would donate the blood and earn good money for it, and maybe the skeleton could go on eBay for sale as an _anatomical model_. The brain could go to science. The heart could be eaten, along with most of the muscles, cooked in fat. Manwë had no use for soulmates just yet… he’d lived for sixty years and only looked twenty-two, his body having aged every second he was in the presence of his soulmate. Melkor had never met his own, and so looked eighteen years old while also being sixty. Manwë had a habit of murdering his soulmates due to just not wanting them around. He didn’t care for love, age or any of that stuff. It was far too romanticized these days, and he knew how people who looked older were treated. People would come up to them and coo over how lovely it was that they were growing old with their beloved, and ask to take pictures seeing as these couples were so rare. Some of the oldest couples were not able to withstand the bright flashing camera-lights and being mobbed with attention, and even died of heart attacks when large groups of people squealed at them. Manwë did not think it was right. He wanted to be a successful businessman and bring focus away from people’s private lives towards bettering the world. And so he killed those who were fated to love him.

Melkor lazily cleaned the chocolate from his fingers as he peered at the TV. It was important to watch the news, even if he didn’t like it. There was too much celebrity bullshit along with things that were just plain depressing. But everyone in the neighborhood looked out for the local alerts that related to rogue Loveless who were to be avoided and reported on sight - those who the police were out to exterminate. Melkor thought it was wrong for the news to encourage actions leading to murder - it decreased community sympathy and compassion in general, saying that lonely and aggressive people should be killed. Melkor was not by nature an empathic man, but had a little bit of morality in him. So did his brother, but in… different ways. Tonight on the news there was a report on Finrod, who went around stealing jewelry and covering himself in it in order to attract his soulmate. He hadn’t seen his soulmate yet, and he didn’t know their name, but one of his relatives had told him years ago that everyone loved a well-dressed rich man and that he should acquire some bling. Now he was a walking combination of necklaces, rings and bangles that clinked like a knight in shining armor wherever he went. He had real diamonds and so many chains it looked like he wore chainmail, and not even silver bullets could stop him. A demon in the flesh, they called him. His pallid face with sunken dark eyes appeared on the screen, and Melkor looked away. Now he knew what to look out for and run from when he wandered about during the day.

Manwë would be busy all night, and Melkor knew sleep would not come to him as long as there was a body being desecrated in the kitchen. He curled up in the armchair, his long limbs folding up beneath him and head just beside a stuffed lump. No matter how he tried to get comfortable, the lump remained hard and bothersome. He punched it in frustration, and felt it move. It was then that a thin flash of gold caught his eye.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the plot thickens B)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made up Tolkienesque names for the places in this fic, I hope it doesn't bother anyone -u-

“Meeeeeeeelkoooooor!! Are you coming for breakfast?” Manwë’s voice carried all the way to where Melkor lay sprawled out in his armchair, half-asleep. Upon hearing no response, he scowled and decided to bother no further with his brother. It was too early to get frustrated over how well Melkor listened - there was a long day ahead, and Manwë had more important things to worry about. Keeping a straight face while applying for a grief benefit from the government was the most pressing issue. Every time someone’s soulmate died, their aging paused and quite often they were gripped with unrelenting fear that they would never meet them again and would go mad, become Loveless, _die_. So they took time off work to see a counsellor, which cost money, that the government offered to pay for due to _unforseen circumstances_. It was much the same as maternal leave, only these situations were handled with a bit more compassion than anything else. Especially if the newly widowed was past fifty years of age and was suddenly bereft of their lifetime partner. Manwë shamelessly abused the system to get the money he needed to keep himself and his brother alive. Melkor didn’t even care, for all the ranting he did about morality.

Ten minutes passed until Melkor dragged himself into the kitchen, his hand in the pocket of his black sweatpants. He’d taken his shirt off through the night and his whole upper body was bare without a single scar or blemish. Their ratty old furniture had not made him bleed yet.

“Food?” he mumbled, leaning on the table with all his weight. Manwë nodded, and slid over a plate of baked oats. Cheap and flavorless but filling all the same, it was their usual meal to start the day. Sugar was sprinkled upon it, the black sugar Manwë liked to make from boiling soft drinks until they were not even caramel. The pure white stuff in bags was too pricy, just like water and fruit juices that had any actual fruit in them. There was no milk either, so Manwë boiled the rainwater collected from the tank last night until it was safe to drink. He knew all the tricks of the stove… and looked after Melkor’s nutrition thus. Sitting at the table, Manwë ate his own oats without any toppings and peered into his brother’s eyes.

“You look wrecked.” he said after swallowing a dry mouthful, tapping his fingernails against the wooden tabletop. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Not while you were sawing that man’s limbs apart like a serial killer…” Melkor gestured to the severed head resting in the dishrack which never actually held any dishes. They used paper plates and their fingers to eat with, and due to the lack of washing-up there was no need to fret over their water usage. The sink was clean this morning, the few blood splatters of last night having been wiped up with disposable towels. Most of Manwë’s soulmate rested in the fridge while the head was to be specially looked after.

“Next time I will be more quiet. Oh, we need a new hacksaw. Mine broke after going through the femur.” Manwë pondered the cost of a new saw and how suspicious he would look while buying it. “You shall get it for me, won’t you?”

Melkor nodded and flicked a single sugared oat into Manwë’s bowl, watching the black speck disappear behind the curved silver foil. That foil had been used to bake the oats on, and saved having to clean an entire tray. It would earn a few cents once recycled, along with the soda cans in the huge bag beside the fridge.

Manwë picked out the oat and ate it, then continued with the rest of his breakfast. None of this was even remotely palatable without something to drink, and even the water was bland. It was _better than empty calories_ , thought Manwë. He gladly accepted the challenge of staying healthy in the times when nobody could truly afford it.

“Today I’m going to the Town Hall to apply for grief payments and I’ll need you to do the shopping. Make sure you get the saw last; it will be quite difficult to conceal.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know how to do it. You don’t have to tell me.” Melkor mentally urged his brother to shut up, as his words always made him nervous for one reason or another. Manwë put incredible pressure on him sometimes, and Melkor couldn’t help but doubt himself when he went shopping.

“We need cheese, spices, the usual. Some flour too, and if you find those little tins of powdered milk, get as much of them as you can.” Manwë slid a carefully handwritten list over to his brother and Melkor barely glanced at it. The game was set, and another day of survival was ready to be had.

~

The severed head went into the fridge for preservation and all looked normal if anyone was to inspect the flat. If Manwë played his cards right, there would be no investigation at all. Nobody would ask about the man with his own life to live who suddenly ended up dead, maddened and full of poison inside Manwë’s fridge. Nobody would wonder why he needed to claw through the side of a house just to get to the soulmate who surely hadn’t known of his existence… Nobody would check his discarded clothes to see the last message on his phone from a stolen throwaway mobile, with its mind-altering patterns of text. Never.

Manwë dressed in his best black suit complete with light blue shirt and grieving face, sunglasses shading his forced onion-teared eyes. He only grew onions for this exact purpose, and they were all that his garden had to offer during this season. He left the house fifteen minutes after his brother, sniffling in the misty morning air. Melkor was already on his way to the suburban shopping precinct of Siriach, while Manwë traveled further and went to Baranír. Siriach was a gritty little district with more houses than anything else, and the shops at the town’s center were just as overpriced as the ones in the city. In Baranír, there were more cars and well-dressed folk who could afford public transport. Many bonded couples walked the clean, paved streets there… and there were no potholes in the roads. Manwë did not stride proudly as he traveled through the chattering people with their trendy phones and other displays of wealth - his shoulders were slumped, and he shivered from time to time. There were cameras in the city. His act of grief began long before he entered the Town Hall.

A few people stared as Manwë dragged himself up the steps to the grand, white building. He did not come here often and when he did, he made sure not to speak with the same people. Keeping suspicion away was the best way to survive as a part-time crook, even though he didn’t think of himself as such. He was righteous. The world was wrong. Such was his mentality.

“I.. need to speak with someone… m..my partner died.” he began, voice quivering. His sunglasses were in his pocket and he gazed at the receptionist, a young woman with a blonde bob cut. She feigned sympathy and directed him to a waiting room, where many other people sat - half dressed like they cared not for judgement, the others clearly of the upper class. Now the waiting began, and Manwë collected himself. His hair was neatly tied in an acceptable man-bun, hidden beneath the black beret he wore. He was going for the ‘suffering artist’ look, and hoped to appear as rather chic instead of a long-haired sleazebag. That was the public’s opinion of him, and he had no choice other than to manipulate it.

 

Melkor appeared well-off in his clean white shirt and blue jeans, shoes not the shiniest but decent all the same. They were flexible runners he’d worn for the past forty-eight years, and he did not look like a shifty teenager in the slightest. His back remained straight as he walked into the supermarket, his angular and mature face offering the appearance of one a few years past eighteen. Not everyone who had yet to meet their soulmate looked exactly like a youth. Melkor was blessed with the prominent, masculine features of his brother and father. Said father would likely be appalled at what Melkor now set out to do. In his right hand he carried a green bag, the kind they sold at the registers for three dollars. He’d paid for that while thinking he could get a box of twelve icy poles for the same price. In his left, he had the list Manwë had written for him. Innocently he wandered the aisles, picking up various items and reading them on the way. Everything on the list, he took and put into the bag when he was out of sight of the overhead cameras. He knew which black domes contained the all-seeing eyes and which were fake… they were just transparent enough for his keen eyes to see through. However, it was impossible for him to pick things up and carry them to a blind spot, then emerge into view with an empty hand. So he changed tactics and started openly placing things into his bag, acting like many people who would use their bags instead of shopping baskets and dump the contents out at the register. Alternatively, they would unload their items one by one at the self-checkout and use the free plastic bags provided to organize things. Melkor had no intention of doing either.

Taking another glance at his list, he remembered that Manwë wanted those little tins of milk powder. Bloody annoying they were, and they didn’t taste that great either. Melkor was just about to glare at the line of light blue tins when he noticed something else. _Packets._ Powdered milk in plastic sachets from a different company, in different flavours! They were the size of envelopes and crinkled loudly when touched. Such thin plastic… yet they were twenty dollars each, for what would only amount to a single cup of milk. Around as much as a large coffee cup could hold. 400ml. And Melkor had grabbed them _all_. His back turned to the camera, he held the packets in a stack while pretending he only had one and was reading it. As he walked with the packets, he began scheming on how best he could take them. Down his pants and into the extra layer of light linen trousers he wore beneath his jeans would not work, as the crinkling would be a dead giveaway. He supposed there was enough room in the green bag to put them, but they would have to sit on top of everything else as the sides of the bag moved with every movement Melkor made. He’d reached the end of the aisle, and was about to put the packets into the bag when he caught sight of a door to the left, slightly ajar. He could see shelves stacked with boxes the closer he got, and after looking left and right he ducked into what happened to be the supermarket’s storeroom. Every single milk packet was torn open and the powder was dumped into his pockets, which were then zipped up. His pockets were deep enough and structured to curve around his upper thighs, so they didn’t bulge when holding thin items. Melkor felt like a genius as he decided on a quick exit, dumping the empty packets behind a shelf and walking a little quicker than necessary towards the exit. The door-checkers were busy fawning over a middle-aged couple asking for certain products, and didn’t pay any attention to the dark-haired morning thief. Melkor’s next stop was the hardware store.

 

Manwë sat before a stern, pale man with short blonde hair and the stench of cologne clinging to him. His own fingers and head were wired to a polygraph, and he hardly blinked his reddened eyes.

“Is your soulmate dead?” asked the man.

“Yes.” said Manwë. Ding! Green light.

“Did you kill them?”

“No.” Utter surety. Manwë left poison. Sent a text. No proof that he told his soulmate to scratch through the wall and kill himself. Green light.

“Did you know them for more than a year?”

“No.” Green. The man tented his fingers and eyed the guards standing by either side of Manwë. They did not respond.

“Why do you need government assistance to pay for counseling? Surely you two were not close.”

Manwë remained calm. He had practiced this.

“I loved her, and will never find her again until many long years have passed. How can I live now, alone?” Unstable. Raised pulse. Red.

The buzzer caused Manwë to twitch, and the man interrogating him shook his head. Manwë breathed.

“I live with my brother.” Green.

It was known that upon loss of a soulmate, panic could set in at any moment regarding the rest of one’s life. It was reasonable for a red light on the lie-detector no matter what was said. The man understood this and gestured for Manwë to be unhooked from the machine, and the paper that came out of it was kept for records. A few papers signed and a bank transfer later… and Manwë had two thousand dollars to be used for ten sessions of counseling. Counseling he didn’t need. If he did, he certainly didn’t realize. Now he had five thousand dollars in the bank and it was enough to pay the rent for at least a few months. It was good enough.

 

Melkor was just walking out with a thin hacksaw blade chafing the muscles on either side of his spine when he heard a beep. Not from the detector gates he’d just passed through, and not from the speakers above. His eyes flicked around as he kept walking, keeping his pace steady and grip on the bag strong. A low cough of static. He saw it, a flashing green light and the contrast of blue on yellow - MALL SECURITY. Shit. They were coming for him, and he would tear his spinal cord into shreds if he ran. There was Paul on his segway coming down from the supermarket, an ass-eating grin on his face. He had his radio in one hand, and just as he clicked a button on it, Melkor heard the response from the officer close by. Still he headed for the exit, and pretended he’d not seen a thing.

“Stop right there!” screeched Paul, and just as he did a scrawny little boy who’d been ambling down in the same direction as Melkor jumped into the air and sped off. Paul zoomed after him, his security uniform fading amongst the chaotic colours of the other shoppers now panicked. Melkor chose this opportunity to slip into the parking lot and remove the blade from his back - then it was time to cheese it all the way home.

~

“Aaaaaaand yeah. Almost got caught. But, I got this new blade for you along with shitloads of milk!” Melkor grinned at Manwë and emptied his pockets into a ziplock bag, showing off the vast quantities of white powder.

“Did you open the bloody tins just so you could fit more stuff into the bag? How’d you manage that?” Incredulous, Manwë watched the powder fall.

“Secret.” said Melkor, and tapped the side of his nose. “There was a good distraction. Some kid got the whole place in an uproar, looked like he hadn’t eaten for weeks. Hope he made it.”

“I’m just glad _you’re_ safe.” Manwë’s arms snaked around Melkor’s waist and he hugged him gently from the side, sighing with exhaustion. “I wish I could just fall asleep. Seeing all those suits and weapons really strains my heart.”

“I know what you mean. At least you didn’t have a hacksaw blade pressed to your spine, eh?” A soft _donk_ sounded as Melkor headbutted his brother, causing Manwë to step back and begin packing things.

“Yes…..” was all he said and gestured for Melkor to leave him alone. He needed his own private time to organize the kitchen, and make sure everything was in alphabetical order along with the earliest expiring things to the left of the cupboard. The cheese went into the fridge, to be used for tonight’s lasagna. The milk powder too, and the somewhat squashed loaf of bread.

Melkor went to change into his black sweatpants, and just as he was pulling them on he felt a weight in his pocket. Then he remembered. His fingers dipped into the space and hooked around something cold. Being careful in how he held it, he pulled the chain up and stared at the pocketwatch on the end. Shiny and gold without any tarnish, it was engraved with many flourishes in the shapes of flowers and leaves.

 _‘What the hell was this thing doing in the armchair?”_ Melkor wondered, swinging the watch from side to side. Suddenly it clicked and fell open, a bright light bursting forth. Nearly blinded, Melkor dropped the watch and it fell face-down into a pile of clothes. He breathed. Looked down, then felt a fierce burning in his right hand. The fingertips he’d held the chain between were blackened as if covered in ash, and an incessant warmth pulsed in both index and thumb. He could hear the rush of blood inside his own head and took several shallow gasps, trying to calm himself. There was a magnetic pull he felt to the watch… and no matter how he tried, Melkor could not stay away from it. He snatched it up and soon his entire right hand was burnt black. Inside the watch was an eye, staring at him and boiling with flame.

“ _Who is it that you love, new Master?”_ hissed the eye, its catlike pupil thin and focussed. Melkor scrunched up his face. Was this one of those trinkets sold by shady folk at flea-markets that Manwë had told him about? Costing ridiculous amounts of money, they were supposedly designed or _magically enhanced_ to help lonely people find their soulmates. They were incredibly popular among impressionable young folk, those who were less than thirty years of age. Mostly teenagers could be seen with whatever new application on their phone claimed to send out spiritual energy that would lead them to their lifetime lover… Others would have stones and fancy pendants that did the same thing. Still, this was some intense technology to be making Melkor feel like fire ran through his veins and tingled at his fingertips.

“Uh… I don’t know…” said Melkor, turning the watch around in his hands. Opposite the half of gold containing the eye, there was an actual watch face with eerie glowing numbers. A little square just beside 9 had the date of the 28th of June, which would occur tomorrow. Melkor went to adjust the date and make it current, but the watch shivered and made him pause.

“ _Wait and see…_ ’ The eye closed after that, and no matter what Melkor did, he could not get it to open again. He looked down at it, unsure if any of that had just been real. There was a dark feeling of foreboding in his heart, spurred by the heavy, crackling voice that came from the flaming eye. Manwë did not need to know about this.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He who is out-of-character actually has a legitimate backstory. Also, progress! This fic is good for that, I've found. Less opportunities for bullshitting around. :D

 

The next day, Melkor sat on the porch outside while eating some leftover lasagna for breakfast. In his pocket he had the watch, and his hand showed no signs of healing. Manwë hadn’t seen it yet, and as long as it didn’t hurt, Melkor cared little. Mist settled in the streets of Siriach, obscuring his view past the front gate. Most of the houses were run-down and seemed abandoned, like nobody cared to look after their hard-earned properties. Every building was occupied enough, it was just that there wasn’t much to do other than rob your neighbors or start a fire. Still, Melkor liked to stare. The dew in his hair was better than the most expensive styling gel, and the crisp air was calming in its own chilly way. Remaining absolutely still was Melkor’s perfect method of chasing his anxieties away. The sirens in the distance were not coming for him, and the little squirrels in the trees were not government spies with robotic skeletons. He was simply breathing, and allowing his body temperature to sink just a little. It was nice. Melkor smiled as the cold lasagna burst into flavour when he bit a hot pocket of cheese. Yes, staying out here and away from Manwë’s hovering presence made for a pretty good escape. And he had something to eat. What could possibly go wrong?

In the kitchen, Manwë poured the blood into thin bags while watching his brother. Today, he would be a good citizen and donate blood while receiving money for it. He would pretend he’d used his own home drainage kit, like the medical institutions recommended for the vast population of the country. Melkor would donate half, Manwë the other. Just so as not to raise suspicion regarding an entire body’s worth of blood being handed in at once. That would earn eight thousand dollars, and all would be well. Manwë narrowed his eyes, then brushed a speck of dust from his thin white lashes. This was no illusion. His brother wore the strangest gloves, eating while a little steam rose from his breakfast.

“What’s that on your hand?” he called, startling Melkor enough for his body to tense, ready to run.

“Nothing!” replied Melkor, turning so Manwë could see nothing more than his back. Manwë scowled, and he wasn’t having any of that! Oh no, he would get to the bottom of this and make sure his brother didn’t even _think_ of hiding things any more. His slipper-dampened footsteps thumped into the hallway and he shivered as a blast of cold air hit him from opening the front door. Melkor had his right hand under his foil-wrapped lasagna lump, and was hunching over a bit.

“Show me your hand.” said Manwë, stern and unforgiving. Melkor shook his head and then he was grabbed, with only enough time to catch his food in his other hand. Manwë lifted Melkor by the wrist and forced him to stand. He squinted.

“What did you _do_? You weren’t like this yesterday…”

Melkor jerked himself out of Manwë’s grip, teeth grit and glare sharp.

“Fuck off.” That was all he said, for he had nothing more in means of explanation or apology. Manwë fiercely backhanded his brother and the sharp slap echoed through the silent streets. And then he got a face full of lasagna.

Melkor vaulted the tall iron fence and was running for his life, dressed in nothing more than his usual sweatpants and a loose grey hoodie. He felt the wind sweep his hair back, flutter his clothes, pinch at his nipples and dry his lips. It made him feel _alive_.

Manwë picked chunks of meat out of his eyebrows, shocked. Half of him had expected that. The rest just wanted to scream. Yet he remained calm, and went to clean his face. When Melkor got home, he would have a lot to answer for. Manwë would get to the bottom of this blackened hand business, even if he had to beg for it. Melkor would not tell him unless offered some great reward. Now getting closer to the train station, Melkor ran and ran until his lungs were about to explode. Such was the thrill of lashing out at his brother, who thought he could tame the beast, the uncontrollable wild thing that was Melkor. Hah! He slicked his hair back and gave a breathless laugh to the grey sky. It was in these moments that he felt free. It lasted for about fifteen glorious minutes before the dread of going back home set in. If he didn’t return to his brother before dark, Manwë would hunt him down under the guise of ‘concern’. Melkor knew he was going to get his ass beat. Looking around, he stood and flexed his fingers. They weren’t as stiff as usual, hot instead of frozen in the middle of Winter. It was by reflex that he rubbed his hands together, and sheer horror in which he recoiled upon sight of open flames. His hands had both caught fire, and held it in a ball the size of a grapefruit. But it didn’t singe his skin off at all!

“How peculiar…” said a gentle voice, and Melkor whipped his head to see nobody owning it. Long white fingers curled around his wrist and he turned to look again, noticing pointed black nails just barely digging into his flesh. A face came into view, eyes hollow and lips paper-thin.

“A-ay, get away!” Melkor clutched his fire close and it warmed his whole body, casting a red glow to his drab clothing. The fingers released him instantly and he heard a soft gasp from the lips, pressed shut and unmoving. He watched those strange, bony hands clutch at a shaking head, and then the face peeled off in one clean swipe. A mask.

“The hell’s wrong with you?!” growled Melkor, the flames in his hands licking up the center of his forearms.

“Ahh, I should ask you the same thing! You’re a demon?!” The voice was not so gentle any more, now shrill with fright.

“You’re the one with no eyes!” Melkor barked accusingly, hands separating to clench by his sides. Not many people feared him and to see this creepy prankster cowering with fear in their bright orange eyes… Melkor thought they were rather interesting, and had no clue why anyone would hide them behind a mask.

“I’m sorry!! I thought you were cosplaying with a realistic prop! Leave me be, foul creature of the underworld!!” The young man held his mask out in defense, body braced for an attack. Melkor had never met a role-playing geek before and only grew more frustrated with the terms he did not understand.

“What are you on about? You high or something?” More confused than angered, Melkor did not take a step closer to the quailing youth. All he got was a head shake in reply, and felt the flames start to creep further up his arms. Words failed in the next minute, and all was quiet save for the beginning patter of rain upon the dirty concrete pavement. The rain did not quench Melkor’s fire, and he had no idea how to turn it off. But instead of being panicked, he grew curious.

“Are you a mage?” asked the man, his orange-gold hair turning dark brown as it became drenched and stuck to his face.

“What’s that?” Melkor pulled his hoodie up and went to wipe his face dry, stopping as he held his hands close enough for the fire to evaporate everything.

“You. Someone with real magic, like in games.” The rain beat down heavier now, dark clouds coming together with lightning dancing above. “Watch!” The man raised both hands to the sky, waited for four seconds and then loud, booming thunder echoed all around. Melkor gave an impressed pout and nodded. “Not bad.” ‘ _You’re fucking crazy.’_ was all that went through his mind. Looking at the figure before him, he saw such a vibrant smile and positive stature that he could not bear to speak his thoughts aloud.

“Come on, let’s find somewhere dry before someone else comes along! The PvP in this area is really intense.” Melkor suddenly found himself being dragged under an unfamiliar roof that extended two meters away from its house. The rain did not touch his skin any more, and the heat from his hands now ran through his entire body. The flames were small and contained in his cupped palms, but only through some serious fear that someone else would see. He didn’t need any more weirdos telling him shit about these new ‘powers’ he’d suddenly gained. Either there was something shady going on here or Manwë had slipped some LSD into the lasagna.

“I still don’t get half the crap you’re on about.” Melkor side-eyed the man whose name he still did not know, and asked “Who are you anyway?”

“Lord Annatar of Garth Agarwen~!” Those orange eyes flashed with excitement and ‘Annatar’ clasped his hands over Melkor’s. “At your service!”

Melkor scoffed. “Your _real_ name?”

“That _is_ my real name.” The way Annatar’s face fell suggested dismay and lack of self-confidence rather than the frustration of a liar, and Melkor inwardly cringed at having killed his mood. Just as he went to apologize, Annatar whispered “It’s Mairon.” Ah, now that sounded a lot more suitable for someone living in the slum-like neighborhoods of Siriach.

“And I’m Melkor, the dude who doesn’t know what he’s doing here. Good to meet you. Is this your house?” Melkor gestured to the weatherboard paneling behind his head, glancing to notice the windows barred as if the house was a prison. Mairon shook his head. “No… I’m not from here.”

“Where, then?” Shuffling back to slide and sit on the windowsill, Melkor gestured for Mairon to join him. His own voice lowered and there was an urgency to the motion of his hand, for wet footsteps could be heard splashing a short distance away. Mairon jumped up to sit his little bottom beside his new companion, glad to be anything but alone. Melkor shoved his hands into the pockets of his sweatpants, flames hidden and the watch cool to touch. He traced one finger along the designs on the case, listening as Mairon told him.

“From a country far away… Garth Agarwen, in the Holion district.”

“Huh. Never heard of it.” Melkor whispered as his hazel eyes tracked the person walking by, their head down and steps shuffling. He could see the bottom of their baggy pants soaked and dragging along the floor, and would have been concerned had it not been for the knife in their hand and great, hulking stature. Mairon watched the person walk out of sight, then realized just how close he’d shifted to Melkor. He couldn’t help it… Melkor was warm… and Mairon knew he was getting attached to this complete stranger with flaming hands.

“Doesn’t matter, I’m here now.” said Mairon, looking up at Melkor. Melkor was perhaps an entire foot taller than him, and had much broader shoulders compared to Mairon’s petite frame. “Can I, ah… stay with you? I don’t have a house…”

“What were you thinking, leaving Garth Agarwen to come to this place? Terrible idea. You’d be dead of starvation before you even learnt how to pay rent.” Shaking his head until his hood fell off, Melkor nudged Mairon with his elbow. “I’m not going to take you in; I mean we don’t even have enough internet for you to play your little fantasy games on, let alone the food to keep your scrawny ass alive.”

“A pity.” Mairon whispered, “That’s all I’ll ever need.”

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manwë has no chill D:

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for abuse

A few hours passed until Melkor ran out of things to talk about with Mairon, who never got annoyed no matter how personal his questions were.

“I gotta get home to my bro.” he said, looking up at the dark sky. The sun hid behind heavy grey clouds and the rain had eased to a light spattering. Mairon whined and clutched Melkor’s arm, nearly falling off the windowsill as he did so.

“Do you _have_ to…? You’re so cool… I want to stay with you.”

“No, no. You can’t stay with me; I’ve got things to do and a life to live. You look after yourself, okay?” Melkor tore himself away and jumped to his feet, pulling his hood up to cover his head. He patted his pocket once to make sure the watch was still in there, then flexed his blackened fingers. There was a light glow beneath his nails, but at least the fire was gone. For now.

“I’ll see you later.” With a hasty wave, Melkor sprinted off. Dinner would be served in half an hour, and after that the streets would be too dangerous for anyone to wander in. Mairon’s view of Melkor faded as the mist swallowed him up, and the surrounding area became enveloped in cold silence once more. At his fingertips he felt the lingering sensation of how tightly he’d held onto Melkor’s hoodie. The rough fabric had left an imprint in Mairon’s smooth skin.

“Aahh!” he squealed, pressing his hands to his face. _‘I wish I could be his friend._ ’

 

Melkor slipped through the gate then locked it tight with hot gasps clouding the air. There was a very real fear he felt when outside the safety of his home, a fear everyone felt when there were rogue Loveless about. Every crack of branch and whoosh of wind felt like a ghostly figure behind him, getting closer in the growing darkness. The soggy grass squelched beneath his feet, seeds and mud getting stuck on his shoes. Another thing for Manwë to yell about. Melkor cringed as he heard screaming nearby, but it was not his brother in a fit of uncontrollable rage. It came from the house on the left – left when you faced the house while standing on the gravely footpath.

“CELEGORM YOU PIECE OF SHIT **_GET OVER HERE!”_** From the sudden ruckus next door it was clear someone was being chased, the sound of glass breaking and voices raised coming soon after. Owning that house and voice was Fëanor, the father of seven children kept under house arrest. Swearing and cackling erupted from Celegorm, his blonde hair visible in a flash as he ran past a window. Melkor facepalmed. Manwë probably had a headache and was _not_ going to be in a good mood.

 _‘Alright. Breathe. He’s not going to do anything drastic. Just ask a few questions. And you’re going to say you burnt your hands while, uh… Oh, fuck me.’_ Walking through the front door, Melkor saw Manwë in the kitchen preparing dinner. Flame-grilled human flesh. Delightful.

“Bruh.” The minute Melkor spoke, Manwë turned and narrowed his eyes.

“Look who’s finally home. Had fun in the rain, while I smuggled a dead man’s blood into the city?”

“Wasn’t like I made you do that…” Melkor stepped towards the table, his eyes avoiding his brother.

“You’ve got to deliver a bag tomorrow. Now before I poke your eyes out with these skewers, tell me what’s up with your hands.” The meat skewers sizzled as Manwë threw a dash of sauce over them. He then licked his fingers and eyed Melkor, waiting for an answer. Melkor sighed.

“I was jacking off so hard my dick started smoking and my hands got burnt.”

“Nice. Now the truth, please?”

Melkor gathered his wits and tried again. “Honestly, these are just weird black marks I woke up with. Look.” He thrust his hands out towards Manwë and they both resembled soot-covered gloves with long nails. Manwë turned off the grill (nothing more than an old bit of junk he’d salvaged from a car) and held out four skewers for Melkor. As Melkor took the skewers, they glowed with a burst of heat.

“What the-” Frozen where he stood, Manwë had to compose himself before he asked “Did you see that?”

“Of course I did.” Melkor began nibbling the meat off all the skewers he held, and Manwë warned him about how hot they were. But Melkor didn’t care, nor did he feel the scorching pain on his tongue. Now Manwë was more curious than ever as to what was going on, and asked Melkor if he was okay. Minutes of speed-eating passed and then Melkor replied with a shrug. Frowning, Manwë blew on his food to cool it and ate. Rarely did he encounter something he did not understand. Melkor told no lies; Manwë could detect them and knew that none were present now. So why had he reacted so aggressively this morning and fled instead of explaining?

“About this morning…” Manwë began, prompting his brother to continue. “Yeah yeah, I’m sorry.” Already finished with dinner, Melkor stood and backed away. “Can I go now? Honestly don’t feel like being questioned any longer.” Manwë did not have it in his heart to interrogate Melkor after such honesty and openness. He waved his hand in dismissal then stared as Melkor left. Something was not right here.

_‘We don’t need any more complications in our life.’_

 

Melkor took the watch from his pocket as soon as he’d locked the door to his room. Clothes off and legs crossed, he sat on his bed.

“What _are_ you?” he asked it, holding the watch open and looking at the eye.

 _“The power of your soul… in physical form.”_ came the hissed response along with a few blinks. Now two things crossed Melkor’s mind as he went to speak to the watch. First, would it not be better to render these ‘powers’ nonexistent? They were troubling Manwë who would undoubtedly inquire again, much to Melkor’s annoyance and stress. But there was something exciting and mysterious about having flames in both hands… it intrigued Melkor so greatly that he began to think of what he could do with them. Cook food without burning fuel! Heat water without a stove! Maybe even straighten his hair when the weather was shit, like it always was. The watch clicked. Drawn from his thoughts, Melkor prepared to throw the thing across the room but found no danger in his hands. The date beside the number 9 had changed. Instead of 28/6, it now read 1/7.

“You got a vision or something?”

 _“Wait and see. And do not hide your power from the world on that day.”_ The eye closed. Flame licked at the lids when Melkor ran his fingers over it, and he could’ve sworn he heard a soft purring come from within. He shut the watch and sighed.

_‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this…’_

~

 

The next two days passed as they usually did – Melkor did whatever his brother asked, and Manwë organized their finances. They were both building a list of the things they wanted to buy, as on the first of June there were sales all over the country. Maybe that was the grand event the magical pocketwatch had foreseen. Melkor doubted it could be anything more than that, but still he held hesitation in his heart. He’d been wrong before. And he didn’t like it in the slightest.

Manwë awoke on Monday morning feeling fresh and full of excitement. He made coffee that day, with the milk Melkor had stolen and a bit of water. Only half a cup, it was very dense and the smell clung to his sleeping clothes.When Melkor woke he was still tired and pushed his nose into Manwë’s neck.

“Mm, can I have some?” he murmured, reaching for Manwë’s cup. A light slap pushed him away.

“No, you always get jittery and it won’t be good for our outing today. We can’t have you tempted to steal when there are bargains to be had, mm?” Silky white locks of Manwë’s hair fell to cover Melkor’s face, and he pushed his forehead against his brother’s back instead.

“Do we have to go out today…? I don’t wanna.”

“Just because you didn’t get enough sleep… That’s no excuse. Come on! Up with you.” Manwë leaned back and Melkor stumbled into the table. Many loud groans and complaints later, Melkor stood. He wasn’t wearing anything save for the pocketwatch on its chain around his neck.

“I gotta wear anything fancy?” he asked while rubbing his face with a singed black palm. Manwë shook his head and downed the rest of his coffee.

“Just a shirt and pants should be enough. It’s warm outside.”

Fifteen minutes and one rushed breakfast later, the two brothers were on their way to the shops. Other people were out and about too, dressed as best anyone in Siriach could be. Old clothes, ragged shades of grey and brown, the cheapest garments one could find thrown together with a little bit of needlework. Some people didn’t even have shoes. They claimed it made it easier to ninja-leap around the laminate-floored aisles during a sale, but cried like children when their feet were stepped on. Sale-time was _aggressive_ in the shopping centres here, much more so than in the civilized city of Baranir where everyone lined up and had the patience to wait.

The two brothers dressed alike in white shirts and blue jeans. Melkor’s jeans were scuffed at the knees, while Manwë’s were perfectly ironed. He let nothing go to waste, not even the steam from boiling their water pure. Remnants of a hazy orange sunrise faded over the horizon as light peeped through distant clouds. Within half an hour the clouds had dispersed and the day warmed up, making Melkor glad he hadn’t worn a jacket. One hand in his pocket, the other held onto Manwë. With so many people in these streets, it was easy to get lost. And sale-time was their yearly ritual. They always stayed together.

“Oh, look who it is…” Manwë whispered to Melkor while squeezing his hand. Melkor glanced ahead to see their neighbours, Fëanor leading his children with ropes tied around each of their waists. They were all in a line and bickering loudly, Curufin clawing at Caranthir who was pulling at his hair like a feral child. Maedhros walked closest to Fëanor, the rope tied around his neck _and_ waist. He was the most likely to run off and seek his soulmate Fingon, who lived just down the road from the shops. Fëanor was not going to let any of his children die before him, oh no. They would stay by his side, immortal and dysfunctional _forever._

“Father! He is giving me split ends!” cried Curufin, seeking justice and getting it almost instantly.

“Caranthir if you do so much as harm another hair on my precious boy’s head I will disembowel you with your own spine.” Fëanor jabbed an accusing finger at the now glowering Caranthir, who brushed his long side fringe out of one eye and raised his middle finger for a split second. Just as Fëanor went to throw Maedhros at him, there was an excited squeal from the back and four hands were raised.

“Look! The stores are opening!” cried Amrod and Amras in unison, pointing and waving towards the shops. Everyone picked up the pace and Melkor pulled Manwë along in the rush to get there _first_. The door people had to barrel roll out of the way and every cashier double-checked they had their riot gear nearby.

“Where to first?” Melkor clutched his brother’s hand tighter and pulled him close before they could be separated by the rushing crowd.

“Remember what’s on the list?”

“Nah.”

Manwë rolled his eyes then smiled gently. “You can pick up whatever you want today, provided it’s in a reasonable enough quantity.” The aisles shook from how many hands were grabbing at once. Manwë was tall enough to reach the items on the highest shelves, but saw people had brought ladders and even home-made grappling hooks.

“Stay close now, I don’t want to lose you…” Manwë glanced down just as he stood on his toes and reached for a tin of pineapples. Melkor was nowhere to be seen, the lingering heat of his hand still wrapped around Manwë’s. “MELKOR!!!” He yelled at the top of his lungs but the cacophony of excited shoppers was too loud and he could not be heard at all. Someone beside him yelled back “CHOCOLATE!!!” and began spasming on the floor. _‘God damn it.’_ he thought, ‘ _This isn’t going to end well.’_

 

“What are _you_ doing here? Behind a stack of fallen cereal boxes, Melkor crouched with the person he’d not expected to see today. Mairon looked away from his phone and the look on his face was a joy so pure it struck Melkor deep inside. Mairon threw his arms around Melkor, burying his face into his neck. Soft curls of his orangey gold hair tumbled over them both and Melkor couldn’t resist running his fingers through them.

“H-hey, you alright?” He wasn’t used to being hugged by near-strangers, though Mairon was probably a bit closer to an acquaintance after their lengthy conversation the other day.

“Perfect.” whispered Mairon, squeezing Melkor a little more. “Oh, I’ve missed you terribly! Can you still do that cool thing with your hands?”

Melkor made a groping motion with one hand just before Mairon’s face and little hot sparks flew between his fingers. Mairon giggled, moving to stand with Melkor.

“Are you doing shopping here too?” Melkor kept his voice low and took in a few short breaths while rubbing his sides. Hot _damn_ , Mairon hugged _hard_.

“Yes! Join me~ You’re so tall, maybe now for the first time I will be able to taste the items on the taller shelves!”

And so Melkor guided Mairon around, not saying much for they could hardly converse with all the background noise going on. Mairon’s bright smile remained plastered to his face while Melkor found it quite endearing that this energetic little guy seemed so fond of him. It was a little strange, in all honesty. But he did not mind. Mairon was not _too_ annoying.

 

The day ended at four in the afternoon when all the shelves were bare and bags had begun to split with how much stuff they held. People were fighting outside, beating and stealing and reinforcing why the police never dared patrol the streets of Siriach. Melkor caught sight of a man who’d had his shirt half ripped off and was bleeding through his efforts to fight. And he was _smiling_. Melkor ushered Mairon in the opposite direction. Then, he saw Manwë. Staring right at him looking almost _defeated_ , Manwë narrowed his eyes and straightened his back.

“Ah, you might wanna go…” Melkor ushered Mairon away but there was no chance Mairon would leave him alone and in danger now.

“Who’s this?” sneered Manwë, his voice clipped and hateful. “Your first soulmate?”

“Yes!” Mairon answered before Melkor could get a word in and oh, Manwë nearly choked on his own tongue.

“Is this true? You happen across this little shit in the supermarket and suddenly you don’t need me anymore?!” Shaking, Manwë grabbed his brother and searched in his eyes for an explanation. But he saw nothing other than confusion and perhaps a little anger.

“Let me go, damn it. Can we just go home? You’ve bought stuff, right?” Melkor tried to gesture with the bag in his hand but Manwë did not look – he took a handful of Melkor’s collar and began dragging him away.

“Wait! No!” Mairon cried, hearing Melkor’s strangled protests as he was taken away. Manwë did not care how terribly his arms would hurt when he got home. He dragged Melkor through the crowds, shopping bags and all. Mairon lost sight of them both within seconds.

 

~

 

“What the hell was that?!” Sitting in the living room, Melkor rubbed his neck and glared up at his brother. Manwë stood by the window with the blinds shut and a general darkness over his face.

“I should be asking _you_.” he said, bitterly upset. “Do you know how hard I panicked when I lost you? I thought you’d been kidnapped by one of the locals and stripped for meat!”

“You _embarrassed_ me, bro. I just saw one of my friends and wanted to talk to him…”

“YOU DON’T HAVE ANY FRIENDS!” Manwë jumped on Melkor then, prepared to roast him until he burnt to a crisp. “We cannot afford friends, nor the mental health care that is required when complications arise! I will not have you breaking down just because your ‘friend’ forgets to talk to you for a week.” Melkor was half listening and half trying to push his brother away, for Manwë now sat on him with most of his weight in Melkor’s lap. There was no escaping now. Manwë knew how Melkor liked to flee to remove himself from uncomfortable situations.

“First your fucking hands turn black and now this? Where did you meet this ‘friend’ anyway? I bet you just saw the little bastard and thought ‘oh, he’s much more fun than Manwë…”

“God! It’s nothing like that at all!” Melkor snapped at his brother and placed both hands on Manwë’s shoulders, pushing him back. Searing pain lashed through Manwë’s entire back then and he winced in rather obvious agony. Melkor was too pissed to care and shoved again, but this time Manwë leaned back and Melkor’s upper body pitched forth. Then Manwë wrapped his arms around Melkor’s chest.

“I am _not_ going to lose you to some romantic dalliance or… whatever you’re up to.” As Manwë spoke, still Melkor struggled and choked out curses in a stuttering stream. Manwë was tired, for all the wriggling Melkor did was an absolute nightmare of resistance against his efforts to hold him close. “Why are you fighting me?” he asked, suddenly a lot calmer than his previous enraged outburst.

“Cause you’re not the boss of me! You can’t keep me from meeting new people! You’re just scared I’ll leave you ‘cause you’re a, a-” Gasping breaths, a harsh grunt. “Fuckin’ killer! You don’t have friends either because you’ve slaughtered them all!”

Manwë loosened his grip for just a moment and was promptly thrown off his brother. Melkor flipped sideways into a combat roll but smashed half of his body into the coffee table, feeling the impact against his ribs. Scrambling to get away got him a free kick into Manwë’s face, which was dodged and caught in an ice-cold grip. Manwë pulled Melkor down onto the floor and tried to pin him there but the pain in his shoulder was too strong and he got a fierce headbutt to the chest.

“I’m not gonna let you do this anymore.” panted Melkor through his clenched teeth “You can’t control me just because you’re…” Then he paused, thinking to say either ‘my brother’ or to admit that Manwë was ‘stronger’. Manwë gripped his shoulder and scrunched up his face, trying to get up. By the time he’d risen, Melkor had given up on what he wanted to say and had run to his room to pack.

 _‘Fuck this.’_ he thought, slicking his hair back with one hand and rummaging through clothes with the other _‘I’m not having him beat me up again. So he doesn’t like Mairon? I’ll go LIVE WITH HIM.’_

In one hand, Manwë held the broom he always kept leaning against the kitchen wall. His footsteps were quiet, gliding across the floor. He went to bust down the door of Melkor’s room just as the door swung open and his kick connected straight with his brother’s crotch.

“Not this time.” he grinned, setting the broom aside.

 


End file.
